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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25571293">Stressed spelled backwards</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/stateofintegrity/pseuds/stateofintegrity'>stateofintegrity</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>MASH (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>M/M</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 02:33:53</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,740</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25571293</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/stateofintegrity/pseuds/stateofintegrity</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>In the Korean cold, Charles misses sweet things.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Maxwell Klinger/Charles Emerson Winchester III</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>12</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Stressed spelled backwards</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/swamp_thing/gifts">swamp_thing</a>.</li>



    </ul></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Bread pudding, sugar caramelized atop it, frozen berries crusted with cold sugar, baked Alaska… these were really </span>
  <em>
    <span>not </span>
  </em>
  <span>the sort of things that ought to be occupying the thoughts of an army surgeon moments after surgery. Charles sighed. They were not things he’d be tasting anytime soon, either - if ever. What he had on offer was coffee that had been left sitting too long - it had a faintly scorched taste to it, now and a bit of hard candy Honoria had sent from home. Sweets did not travel well. His sister knew, as almost no one else did, that he tended to eat more when stressed. Where could one be </span>
  <em>
    <span>more</span>
  </em>
  <span> stressed than in a war zone? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He felt around his belt. Not that this stress eating of his had done him any harm </span>
  <em>
    <span>here</span>
  </em>
  <span>. He was thinner than he’d ever been thanks to a combination of terrible food, bouts of illness, and near constant physical activity. Up on the front lines, he thought, darkly amused, men were dying for something neither the U.S, their UN allies, or the other side had been able to define well, while he, sitting in the mess tent in the middle of the night, might have killed for cake. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sighing, he pulled his ineffectual coat tighter about him and ducked his chin down toward his chest in an effort to brace himself for the cold air he was about to enter. It felt pointless to even leave the mess tent; his cot was little more comfortable than a wooden bench and the small stove in the Swamp was barely capable of heating his hands if he held them out directly over top of it. As if annoyed that he failed to see any good in it, the universe proceeded to reward him with an iced over puddle. Failing to see it in the winter dark, he crashed through and ended up with the  booby prize of a very damp, very thick sock. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nor, the universe being so just, did he get to play out this winter’s night gaffe unobserved. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Bad luck, Major,” quipped their cross-dressing corpsman (though, Charles reflected, corps</span>
  <em>
    <span>person</span>
  </em>
  <span> was probably more accurate in Klinger’s case). “Here, lemme help. You’ll get frostbite before you hit your tent.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Translating it into proper English (he couldn’t do otherwise), Charles pondered the phrase </span>
  <em>
    <span>let me help</span>
  </em>
  <span>. It was probably the kindest thing he’d yet heard in Korea. So he had two choices. He could snap at Klinger in his irritation… or he could unbend a little. Hadn’t Klinger always made an effort to be kind to him? He’d even gone so far (insolent, amusing thing) to suggest that they were soul mates once. It was mad… but it was also miles more than he’d had from anyone else in this awful place. “Yes. I, ah, I would appreciate it, Klinger.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The surprise on Klinger’s face told him that this wasn’t the answer Klinger had expected - but then he beamed. “Great. Come on, Major. My tent’s a mess, but if you won’t put me on report about it,”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You will ensure that I can still count to ten with my toes?” Charles returned, valiantly trying to stave off the bout of shivering that made his teeth want to clack together. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Klinger laughed longer than this quip merited; he never got to hear the Major make fun. Inside, he surprised his superior officer by taking charge of the situation with an efficiency that would have done OR proud… and probably did, come to think of it. Charles never paid any attention to Klinger in OR, but he was the only corpsman Potter consistently kept on that grueling duty. It seemed there was a reason. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I can take off my own shoes, Corporal.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Klinger frowned at him. “Awful formal, </span>
  <em>
    <span>sir</span>
  </em>
  <span>. And, yeah, I know you can, but you’d have to take your gloves off and it ain’t all that warm in here yet. Nobody around here needs my hands, but they need yours, so let me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You make a persuasive argument when you wish.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Tell that to I Corps,” Klinger said, fighting wet knots. “I send them </span>
  <em>
    <span>photographic evidence </span>
  </em>
  <span>and do they budge? Of course not. Because what does the Eighth Army </span>
  <em>
    <span>really </span>
  </em>
  <span>need? Me - in a dress. Explain that.” Seeing the taller man shiver, he draped an afhgan over his lap; Charles wondered if Klinger had sewn it himself. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Perhaps some general has his eye on you and does not wish to be divided from you by the many miles of the Pacific.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Klinger made an annoyed noise at him. “I wish. If somebody had even half an eye on me, they’d at least be trying to make sure I didn’t stumble over a tripwire and get blown up or,” he stopped, shook his head. “Never mind. Here, this is warm now.” He eased the half-full basin off of the top of the stove and under his frozen feet. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Winchester hissed as the incredibly hot water met his equally chilled flesh, but it felt good enough to take the rigidity out of him - all the way up to the shoulders. The smell of mentholated citrus filled the tent and he lifted an eyebrow. “Sacrificing your bath salts for me? I can’t sign a section 8 on my own.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mean, Major,” Klinger informed him as he made tea.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Saying it or refusing to sign?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Both. But I don’t think you’d tell me ‘no,’ if I could get the other signatures anyway. You want out too much to keep someone else in.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Winchester chose not to commit; he felt that if he agreed, it would somehow circle around on him in unexpected ways. He did accept the tea cup Klinger extended to him, however, and the very thick socks. Klinger confessed that he’d been making them for BJ for Christmas, but said he could start anew. Charles was glad; his feet </span>
  <em>
    <span>needed </span>
  </em>
  <span>to live in these socks the way he needed something sweet to distract at least some small, animal part of him the hell of Korea. If he could figure out what they were made of, he’d buy spools (coils? rolls?) of it and bargain with Klinger to make more. This, like the cake he’d been dreaming of and not getting was </span>
  <em>
    <span>pure comfort. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Of course, now he had the unique problem of wanting neither to put his cozy feet back into wet boots nor wanting to walk in stocking feet back to the Swamp. “Do you mind if I stay until my boots are dry?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not kicking you out.” Then he chuckled. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What is it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You keep making that face - how come?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I thought I, ah, well, silly as it sounds, I thought I smelled something. Cherries jubilee actually.” He thought about explaining his craving for sweets but held back, not quite ready to admit the flaw. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Klinger gave him a look he couldn’t read, expression caught between admiration and amusement. Mischief brightening his gaze, he said, “You won’t like it, Major, but your nose might be able to give mine a run for its money. That’s exactly what you did smell - it’s just the lipgloss instead of the food.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Winchester’s eyes narrowed curiously. “Is it sweet, this lipgloss?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, why?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He thought of the flame-touched skin of fruit soaked in liqueur, the burst of warm sweetness… it wouldn’t be nearly the same, but, in this place of powdered oranges and powdered eggs, he’d accepted substitutes before. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When he broke the kiss, his craving had been sated and Klinger’s eyes were laughing at him, even if his cheeks were pinked. “I would have just handed you the tube, Major.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, that, ah, would have been a more sensible course, perhaps,” he said, realizing what he’d done… and not regretting a thing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wanna tell me why you did that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Deciding that the explanation was very much owed, Charles told him about his rising stress levels, his inability to get the soothing desserts he would have indulged in at home, his cravings for anything sweet. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Must have been a hell of a craving,” Klinger teased, “for you to sink this low.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not ‘tall. If the same sweet sheen had glittered on another mouth, I assure you that I would have reacted quite differently.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Huh</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Klinger thought, accepting the compliment. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Upper class flirting is really something else</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>After that night, the pretty clerk put his scrounging skills to the test, acquiring snacks for the surgical team he served. Clued in by Charles’ unexpected but not unpleasant trespass he also did some digging to find out what would lift the morale of his friends. For BJ he found mystery novels and for the Father he found seeds for his garden. Hawkeye became the recipient of the sort of novelty items found in boy’s magazines: fake ice cubes with spiders inside and sparklers disguised as incense (everyone had their own ways of dealing with stress). Margaret got makeup that Klinger vowed not to borrow. The Colonel got brushes and ribbons for Sophie. Charles noted all of these deliveries with pleasure (though none so much as the cake). </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And what do you get for being so kind?” he asked Klinger as they left the scrub room one evening. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“To see everybody smile, mostly.” Then he gave a teasing little look. “And more lip gloss.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“More cherries?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nah, there’s a whole collection. They’re on the fall flavors so it’s all honey-cinnamon and popcorn balls and vanilla taffy.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t suppose you would allow me to evaluate them, since I got to assess the original?” He said this with a studied nonchalance that he did not feel. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You never gave me a real review last time.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My mistake. The cold left me quite unlike myself.” He closed his eyes to remember the smell of cherries hanging in the cold air, the feel of that mouth, warm and pliably welcome under his. “I think, Maxwell,” he said at last, “that you will understand me if I tell you that I would set aside all desserts forever for you - and be content with finding all further sweetness on your lips.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When he looked down, Klinger was tugging at his wrist, eyes eager. “Well, come on then!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why the rush?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There are a lot of flavors, Major. If we’re going to find your favorite, we’d better get started.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Thereafter, Korea did not become less stressful, but Charles, at least, had a surefire way to cope. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>End! </span>
</p><p>
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